Unexpected
by USxArthurxKirklandxUK
Summary: America gets an unexpected surprise when he sees England ironing... AmericaxEngland if you squint, ficlet, humour


Unexpected

**Summary: America gets an unexpected surprise when he sees England ironing... AmericaxEngland, ficlet, fluff**

**A/N: Just a ficlet to attempt to cure my writer's block... Hopefully it'll work...**

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Rain, rain, and more rain. Honestly, it was always like this at England's house. It mirrored the Brit's usual mood, sour and sullen. He let himself into England's house, shaking the water out of his hair as best he could. "England!" he called, kicking off his shoes, careful to keep them on the mat. England had a fit if he got so much as a speck of dirt on his neat-freakishly clean floors.

"I'm in the ironing room!" he heard the familiar, articulate voice answer back. He tossed his jacket on top of a chair, and took the familiar route to the back of the house, passing through the kitchen to a small room in the side. He still found it wierd that England had his washing machine in his kitchen.

"You haven't cooked anything yet, have you?" America asked, running his fingers through his hair and ruffling it, shaking more water droplets from it.

"No," England responded, tone sour. "And if you say 'good, because your cooking sucks', I'll murder you and hide the body where no one else will ever find it, Alfred F. Jones."

America laughed. "Yeah, sure, right." He turned around the corner, and saw England standing behind an ironing board, a pair of pants in one hand, a hot iron in the other. He was clad only in an old pair of jeans (which in itself was a shocker to him, as he'd never seen England in short sleeves, much less shirtless) and an apron, which at least doubled the freak-factor.

"Woah. You own a pair of jeans?" he questioned, attempting to move his field of vision to see England fully.

England's right eyebrow twitched, and America knew he was now on thin ice with the irrate nation. He couldn't help but smile, though. Seeing England in jeans - actually, just casual clothing in general - was something he found rather adorable. It made the usually uptight blonde seem more human. England finished his pair of slacks and folded them expertly, putting them on a hanger and hanging it over a small rack. "Any reason why you decided to drop by?" England asked, gathering the last of a small pile of shirts, deftly speeding the iron over them and hanging them next to the pants. Each shirt only seemed to take him a maximum of five seconds, even the ones with collars. He obviously had a lot of practice.

"Nah, just thought I'd drop by, since I was in the neighborhood."

"Visiting the git again?" England asked dryly, snapping a shirt a little harder than usual.

"Francis really isn't that bad of a guy, you know," America amended.

"French prat," England growled under his breath. He tossed the last of the shirts on the rack, and turned again, his back now to America. America stared for a moment. "Uh... England?"

"What?" England asked, glancing at him as he took a fresh load from the dryer and began sorting socks from shirts.

"What is that?"

A large electric guitar, decorated with the Union Jack and the symbol for Anarchy over it, graced the gentleman's back, from the small of his back to in-between his shoulder blades. The design's bottom was just below the band of his worn jeans. The tattoo was obviously a few years old, with the slightly faded look around the edges that became common. "What's what?" England asked, folding a pair of socks together and tossing another shirt onto the board.

"When did you get a tattoo?" America asked carefully, taking a few steps forward, attempting to get another look at the inked flesh.

England stared at him for a few moments. "...I've had this for over twenty years, Alfred," he said, as if it were obvious.

"Twenty--Wha? When? Why?" Alfred babbled unintelligently.

England stared at him evenly. "Honestly... Is a screw loose in your head?" he asked, shaking his head. "I got it during the punk era in the eighties. And it's just a tattoo, Alfred. You have one, too, I'd be willing to bet," he said, ironing out another shirt. not even bothering to look up from his work.

"I don't," America muttered. "And to think you of all people do..."

England looked at him, raising in eyebrow. "That so? Why's that?"

"Well, you're just... so... old-fashioned?" America stammered, attempting to side-step the word 'boring'.

"I have three," England stated blandly. "I also have six piercings, though I'll leave it up to your imagination where."

America felt his eyes widen and his face heat up. "S...Six?"

England chuckled to himself. "The other ones closed up," he said, sending him a cheeky smirk and picking up his ironing and moving to put it away.


End file.
